


Folding Into You

by tiggeryumyum



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Depression, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiggeryumyum/pseuds/tiggeryumyum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco has depression, and a few especially bad weeks. Jean comes home and they cuddle. Just fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Folding Into You

Jean's gone three weeks, on a business trip from one side of the country to the other. 

Jean likes to travel and his job gives him plenty of opportunities to do it, but Marco knows this is going to be a bit much, even for him. His usual trips only last a few days, often scheduled over a weekend so Marco can join him if possible. A marathon like this is going to leave Jean exhausted, and Marco takes this into consideration when he plans for Jean's return – it'll be low-key. Calm. Marco will wait for Jean at the airport, have Jean's favorite meal ready at home. They'll eat together, then fuck like animals, fall asleep and do it again when they wake up. They'll spend the rest of the day in lazy, half-dressed bliss, and invite friends out for drinks late in the afternoon.

But in this planning, Marco forgot to account for actual time alone. The weeks of living by himself in an empty, silent house. He's off for the semester and has no classes. No one to visit, no holidays, just a long stretch of unremarkable days. 

By the second week it's an accomplishment if Marco can even make it out of bed.

He tries. He buys all the ingredients for the meal. He digs through their junk drawer for some sharpies, looks in the closet for some cardboard paper big enough for a welcome home sign, but loses energy and motivation halfway through, leaving the closet door open and objects spilling out into the hallway. Nothing is finished. The embarrassing, scattered mess of his attempts across their home only make it harder to get out of bed next time. The clutter of day to day life is accumulating as well, a pile of wrinkled clothes on the couch that was once fresh laundry. Wrappers and cans in the kitchen from frozen, bagged meals because he certainly doesn't have the energy to make anything fresh. The bathroom is disgusting.

Jean will want to have sex. Marco knows he'll be looking forward to that most. 

The day before Jean is due home, Marco realizes after spending three weeks marinating in his own sweat and stale come, alternating between mindless games on his phone and jerking off, that the bedsheets smell awful. He smells awful. He needs to shower, if nothing else, needs to shave the two week growth on his face, and get clean sheets on the bed, it's the bare minimum. He knows it, and he tells himself this, but the disgust in himself for letting it get to this point overwhelms him. He rolls over in bed and his thumb slides over his phone instinctively, pulling him into the soft, easy distraction of another game.

It takes him another day to actually drag himself to the bathroom.

He's laying in the empty bathtub, staring at the wall, when Jean walks through the door. 

It's not a surprise. Marco stopped responding to messages the middle of last week, and stopped even looking at them three days ago, a suffocating sense of failure smothering him from all sides, his inability to handle even this basic thing.

About an hour or so ago, Marco's cellphone came to life again, shaking against the bathroom sink with what had to be texts from Jean. Telling Marco that his plane landed… that he's at baggage claim… asking where Marco is...

Then it stopped. 

Marco listens to the distant thump of Jean's luggage hitting the floor, then the thunk-thunk of Jean kicking off his shoes. Jean's silent as he progresses through their house, turning on lights as he goes, and Marco realizes he's been sitting in a dark house almost six hours. 

Jean pauses longer and longer at the entrance of every room, searching for Marco. 

A sigh when Jean finds him in the bathroom – one of relief, and it sends a kind of pain through the general dull misery that hangs around Marco's head like a cloud. Jean was worried. Jean had reason to worry. 

It's not always this bad without Jean. Marco knows he made it worse himself. His mind, which has been a useless, uncooperative bag of old socks the past three weeks, is suddenly energized, racing through all the things he could've done, should've done, to prevent it from getting _this_ bad, which hasn't happened for some time. He could've reached out to Armin or Eren or Sasha, he could've stuck to his routine outside the house. He could've gone to the gym. He feels pathetic, and gross, and it all peaks to a nauseating degree as Jean settles on the toilet beside the tub. 

A long pause.

"Mind if I join you?" Jean asks.

Marco looks over his shoulder. 

Jean is undoing his tie, smiling with weak, uncertain hope, like he's not sure it's the right thing to say. 

Marco nods, and Jean undoes his belt, unbuttons his hopelessly wrinkled dress shirt, settling behind him in the tub. There's barely enough room for the two of them, but they've managed it before and they'll do it again in the future, like they do today. It has become suddenly impossible for Marco to ignore the filth of his own skin, and touching Jean only makes him more aware of it – the long, slender stretch of Jean's skin feels warm and clean pressing against his own. But even the embarrassment can't completely eclipse the selfish thrill at the contact – he's missed Jean, and he's so happy he's back he finds himself grabbing for Jean's leg, holding to Jean's arm around his waist. It's enough to make his eyes sting. Why didn't he meet him at the airport? The question only makes him feel worse, and Marco clings tighter. Jean cleans back.

"Missed you," Jean says. 

He only realizes how cold he'd actually gotten, laying there, naked, for hours, when Jean turns on the faucet, filling the tub with wonderfully hot water.

He sighs in contentment, closing his eyes and letting the warmth creep slowly up his body. He doesn't have to look to tell Jean is proud of himself for this – for making Marco feel just a little better – he can feel the small smile pressed against his shoulder. 

Jean doesn't complain out loud, but the first thing he does, once Marco is decently warmed up and sitting upright, is grab the shampoo and dump a generous blob in his hand, working it into Marco's hair. Jean loves Marco's hair. Loves digging his hands in it, loves the smell. This fact only makes Marco feel worse, today – Marco couldn't even keep it clean. 

Marco forces out a shaky sigh, and tries to push himself out of this suffocating, tunneling mindset. 

"How was your trip?" 

"Sucked," Jean says. "Glad to be home." Hands still working the shampoo into Marco's hair, Jean presses a kiss against his neck. "Looks – uh. Looks like it sucked here, too," he mumbles, a little nervously, against Marco's skin.

It feels manipulative, how he's getting Jean's concern, now. Selfish and greedy. Like he planned this, and does not deserve it, the soothing relief the sympathetic, non-judgmental words bring. 

"Yeah," Marco says, forcing himself to answer, because he knows, logically, none of that is true, and that Jean needs to hear that Marco appreciates his concern. 

"Have you been eating?" Jean asks, quietly. 

They both know the answer's no, not really. "… Sorry," Marco mumbles.

"Want take out?" Jean asks, he's getting more confident now in what Marco wants, pushing himself closer against Marco's back cheerfully. Of course that's when it hits, a double blow, the reminder of the meal Marco failed to make, and how ungrateful he really is, to have this reaction to Jean's kindness. 

"I just – "

He can _feel_ Jean wilt, just slightly. "Sorry," Jean says. "That was, uh… you're probably sick of take out?"

"We can make something together?" Marco suggests.

"Yeah," Jean says, sounding pleasantly surprised. "Anything's better than airline food." 

"I wanted – I got everything for those omelets you like," Marco says. He tilts his head back as far as he can, while Jean rinses the shampoo out of Marco's hair, one handful of water at a time. This won't be good enough, they'll probably need to shower once they're finished to actually wash the thick froth of shampoo out of his hair completely, to clean the rest of themselves properly. The water around them is disgusting, not just with Marco's sweat, but the grime of Jean's travel. The fact that this spurs an actual reaction in Marco, a want to stand and drain the tub, is a good thing. He's becoming a real human boy again. He's a combination of sad, and disappointed, and happy, and stupidly in love with Jean at that thought, and though they're not all pleasant feelings, they're all _real_ , it's Marco-feelings, not depression-feelings. He feels like a robot that's been shut off for years, slowly reconnecting to his body, cataloging all the changes that have happened to it while he was asleep. Some of them hurt.

"How was the flight?" Marco asks. 

"Sucked," Jean says, again. "Don't even want to think about it."

That's a lie – there are stories there he wants to tell. Marco will get them out of him later. 

They stand, and shower. There's an awkward moment when Marco presses an open mouthed kiss to Jean's shoulder and can literally _smell_ his spit – he hasn't brushed his teeth in at least a week. Self disgust hits so hard his lip actually curls. What is _wrong_ with him?

"I hate myself," he says, flat and honest, before even really thinking about the words. Jean shakes his head, cradling Marco's face, and Marco recoils when he realizes what Jean is going to do. "No – Jean, don't – "

But Jean ignores him and plants a bold, firm kiss on Marco's lips. 

"Don't. Jean," Marco says, pulling away. He's started crying. 

"Shit. Sorry," Jean says, releasing his lips but pulling Marco tighter against him, instinctively offering comfort. "I'm sorry. Shit." 

Marco shakes his head. It's not Jean, and he keeps his arms around Jean's body, keeping him close until he can control himself again. He just can't stand that he's like this, he can't _stand it_ , it's nothing that he wants to be, it's nothing he ever thought he would be, this malfunctioning leech that can't even remember to brush his teeth, can't bare to have this disgusting thing sucking Jean's affection – 

"How can you… stand…" _this._ Marco makes a vague gesture toward his own body. _Me. The mess I made. The mess I am…_

"I don't know. It's …" Jean mutters, stumbling a bit, and sounding frustrated. "I'd rather be with you when you're gross like this than anyone else on their best day."

Marco snorts with surprised laughter. Someone else might have tried, _There's nothing wrong, you're not a mess, you're perfect_ , but if Jean was smoother – a better talker – someone who was good at saying empty platitudes, Marco realizes that would've made it worse. Jean is honest, as always, and, as always, the true depth of his affection for Marco leaves Jean a blushing, awkward child. Jean's looking down between them, where their bodies are pressed together. He'll take Marco however he comes, it seems, whatever mess Marco makes of himself, however gross he gets. 

It's exactly what Marco needed to hear, though they linger as long as possible under the spray, until Jean's skin goes right past pink and borders on full on bright hot red. 

Marco shaves, and they both brush their teeth, then pick from the pile of clean clothes still sitting on the couch. Wearing only pajama bottoms, exhaustion finally hits Jean, and he slumps over Marco's back as Marco cooks, chin on his shoulder, limp and clingy. There's satisfaction in this, in literally bearing Jean's weight, being able to hold him upright. In being useful, even in this blunt, obvious way. 

"Wanna taste?" Marco asks, and realizes Jean has actually started dozing lightly, having to blink open his eyes before opening his mouth for the steaming vegetables. 

"S'good," Jean mumbles as he chews, and presses the side of his face against Marco's in lieu of a kiss, humming at the soft skin of Marco's freshly shaved cheek. "Good to be home."

"Good to have you home," Marco says, unable to believe the change in the atmosphere – how it morphed from a cage Marco was hiding away in to a home, his home, Jean and Marco's home. He's surrounded by messes, still, crumpled wrappers on the counter, and dishes in the sink, but there's nothing that can't be fixed, thrown out, and cleaned. He doesn't have the energy to tackle it all now, but he will soon, and it's all because of this boy practically snoring on his shoulder. 

They eat on the couch, the kitchen table is too cluttered and Jean apparently does not have to be told that the bedroom isn't really fit for humans. He's not surprised when Jean ends up falling asleep almost the moment he's finished, dropping his plate to the floor and laying out beside Marco on the couch, not even twitching as Marco pulls the blanket down, wrapping them up together. He turns on a movie, but most of his attention is on Jean, and it's not long before Jean's calm, slow breathing relaxing him to the point that his own eyes start growing heavy. 

Marco's spent the majority of the past few weeks asleep, but didn't really feel rested, and his body is greedy for the peaceful, regenerating sleep he finds next to Jean. What he was sure was only going to be a few hours nap lasts through the night. 

It's just barely morning when he wakes again, purple sunrise in their living room windows. 

Jean sleeps so deeply, it can tire Marco just watching. He smiles, running his thumb over the apple of Jean's cheek, a light touch, and an even lighter touch running over his dry, pink lip.

"Mmm," Jean breathes. He's still asleep, but he squirms happily at Marco's attention, moving in closer. 

This gentle, light petting is the kind Jean melts for in this state, settling back down and sinking deeper into sleep. Marco is entranced by Jean, by how he looks when he's this relaxed. How there's not a trace of tension in his body once he senses it's Marco there, beside him. Part of Marco wishes he could keep Jean like this forever, in a state of peaceful bliss. 

He's not aware of falling asleep again, but the next time he opens his eyes there's proper sunlight in the window, and Jean's watching him. That's what woke Marco, Jean's stare - Marco smiles in amusement when he feels Jean's hand on his cheek and realizes jean had been doing his own petting.

"Morning," Jean says.

"Morning," Marco echos. His body is content, and knows the feel, smell and touch of Jean - it doesn't take long before he's decently hard He shifts to find a more comfortable position, but it only brings obvious attention to where his length is pressed against Jean's thigh. 

Jean hums in obvious approval, and together they shift until they find the best position the couch can allow – chest to chest, Marco's arms planted on either side of Jean's head. His hips move in immediate, eager response to every twitch from Jean, like two live wires feeding off each other. Each long, thorough grind of his hips stokes his arousal higher, and he watches the need grow in Jean's face, the press of their erections feeling impossibly intimate, in the quiet of the morning, laying close like this, Jean's face still soft from sleep. 

Suddenly, Jean sighs. His voice holds no judgment, though it also leaves no room for argument. "You stopped taking your meds."

Marco nods after a beat. He doesn't even feel guilty. He hates his meds. He hates how they numb him up, and how they make it nearly impossible to be close to Jean like he wants. Like he needs. It's possible to get an erection after a generous amount of coaxing, but there's an eerie disconnect that leaves him feeling like an impartial observer to their fucking, which is a unique kind of torture they can't honestly expect him to live with. 

He craves this space here, between Jean's legs, fitting between them. The idea of pressing against Jean, feeling Jean's excitement and not answering it in kind, is worse than all his bad days combined. 

"Marco," Jean sighs again, but leaves it there. 

"What do you want?" Marco asks, hips still moving, determined to make Jean feel good. Marco would take anything right now, as long as it involves Jean. 

"Still pretty tired," Jean says, with a little smile. He thrusts up, sharply, keeping one hand at the back of Marco's head, scratching against his scalp and sending shivers down Marco's back. "This is good."

"You sure? We could – you could just lay there, I could – "

"I know what you can do," Jean says. "Want to be awake for it." He spreads his legs wide, wrapping them around Marco's waist, encouraging the steady grind of their bodies. "This is good."

It is good, and the couch groans with the force of their shifting bodies, the increasing tempo, until they're both left shuddering from it, an orgasm that wrings Marco out in the most satisfying way. He is reminded of the countless times he tried to find this satisfaction in himself, alone in bed, the emptiness it left behind. He stares down at Jean's flushed face, lax mouth, closed eyes, and is overcome with gratitude, this sense of accomplishment Jean's presence gives, the thing he'd never be able to find on his own. 

They neck lazily, and doze on and off until noon.

"I don't like to see you that bad," Jean says, quietly, staring up at the ceiling. "You should see if you can get different meds. Something you'll actually take."

"It wasn't just the medication," Marco says, honestly. "There was just... nothing to do. I got caught in my own head, I could've…" he trails off, not wanting to go into all the things he could've done. 

"We should get a dog," Jean says.

Marco laughs at the abruptness of the suggestion, then seriously considers. Well. A dog could be nice. A dog would be constantly engaging Marco, unable to give Marco space, unable to look after itself. Surely that would provide some powerful motivation. But then that could backfire – it could just make Marco feel even worse, even more of a failure, unable to provide for a pet… Marco can't risk another life on an experiment like this, on the off chance it would make him feel better. Not on his own, at least. It'd be irresponsible. Jean would need to make a commitment to it, to the home he has with Marco. 

He says it without thinking, "Well, we'd have to get married."

As soon as it's out of his mouth, he stiffens. Jean freezes beneath him.

It's the first time either of them have said the word. 

They're so close, noses less than an inch apart, that the tension between them is a little hilarious – they stare into one another's stunned faces, frantically trying to read how the other is reacting. It melts simultaneously, and Jean hides his smile against Marco's neck.

"I guess we would," Jean says.


End file.
